American Football
by eyesocketsandsuits
Summary: [ PruAme Oneshots ] "What was that, Jones?" Gilbert Beilschmidt yelled as they entered the locker room. He ripped off his helmet, throwing it across the ground. He was dripping with sweat and looked absolutely furious. "Oh, screw off," Alfred Jones growled back, shoving by the other boy. "No, don't you tell me to screw off!" Gilbert shouted again, grabbing Alfred's shoulder.
1. American Football

The ball flew through the air like it belonged there. The players dressed in red scrambled against those in blue. Two reds broke through the wall of blue, streaking across the field. The crowd cheered.

The two reds were neck and neck, checking every so often to look behind them as the ball flew closer and closer. The crowd's cheering grew a little confused; who was actually going to catch the ball? Neither were relenting in their pursuit.

The question was answered when the two runners tripped over each other's feet. The ball hit the ground ten feet ahead of them both.

 **…**

"What the fuck was that, Jones?" Gilbert Beilschmidt yelled as they entered the locker room. He ripped off his helmet, throwing it across the ground. He was dripping with sweat and looked absolutely furious.

"Oh, fuck off," Alfred Jones growled back, shoving by the other boy.

The rest of the team entered reluctantly, eyeing the fighting duo.

"No, don't you tell me to fuck off!" Gilbert shouted again, grabbing Alfred's shoulder as he attempted to walk by. He spun the boy to face him, pushing him slightly. "I'm the running back! Why do you feel," he gave Alfred another push, "The need to play the hero constantly?"

Alfred pushed back Gilbert, his hands curling into fists. "Maybe it's because someone _fumbles the damn ball_ all the time! You ever think of that, Burgermeister?"

Gilbert drew back a fist.

"That's enough." Ludwig, Gilbert's younger brother, caught Gilbert's fist. "You two need to calm down."

Gilbert ripped his arm away, glaring at his brother. The rest of the team stood in a semi-circle, reading to break up any fighting. Antonio Fernándes-Carriedo took a step forward, smiling apologetically.

"It doesn't matter, we'll do better next game. Right, guys?" There was two or three agreements from the crowd, and the smile fell off of Antonio's face.

Alfred began to speak, agreeing with Antonio, but Gilbert wasn't going to listen to that. He headed deeper into the locker room, ripping off his uniform and padding, throwing it loudly into his locker.

 **…**

Gilbert was the last one out of the showers, brooding in the corner. Even Antonio hadn't tried to approach him. Finally, when everyone had left and the shower had gone cold, Gilbert wrapped a towel around himself and trudged back into the locker room.

"You need to—"

Gilbert screamed, whipping around the half dark locker room and throwing his bar of soap at the voice.

Elizabeta Héderváry stepped out of the path of the soap, crossing her arms at Gilbert. She had changed into the shirt Gilbert had spilled chocolate milk on last week.

Gilbert sighed, running a hand through his wet hair. "Jesus, woman, can you at least let a man get dressed before you lecture him?" He grabbed a pair of sweatpants and pulled them on underneath his towel, throwing it away.

"You need to stop this thing with Jones," Elizabeta continued, moving Gilbert's towel out of her path with her foot as she approached. "It's making everyone on the team miserable."

Gilbert kicked around inside his locker for a clean shirt. "Well, it's not _my_ fault Jones is a dickhead," he grumbled, shying away from Elizabeta's glare.

"Antonio said he was thinking about quitting."

Gilbert paused, staring into the depths of his locker. It had been Antonio who had made Gilbert sign up for football in the first place. He had explained it was a lot more satisfying to tackle people and not be sent to detention; you were actually praised for hitting people! It had been a godsend to Antonio, then Gilbert.

"Well," Gilbert finally muttered, "What do you want me to do about it?"

Elizabeta slammed Gilbert's locker shut. "I want you to get your _head_ out of your _ass_ and apologize!" She banged her fist again the lockers. "Damn, Gil, it's our last year and you choose _now_ to pick fights with Alfred?"

Gilbert opened his locker again and hunched his shoulders, grabbing the first shirt he came across. Elizabeta let out an angry noise from the back of her throat and walked away, flats echoing off the tile in the room.

 **…**

Gilbert opened his school locker, eyebrows furrowed as he listened to his friends' conversation.

"No, I'm telling you," Antonio insisted, "There's a whole nest of them under my house!"

"That type of turtle doesn't live around here, idiot," Lovino Vargas snapped, leaning against Antonio's locker nearby. "They live by the ocean."

"No, really! A guy came out and everything to look at the nest and he had a clipboard and tie and everything. He told me that they were protected and that I couldn't touch the nest or my Dad would be fined."

"I'm pretty sure you're bullshitting me," Lovino snapped, giving Antonio a slight push.

Antonio laughed, batting Lovino's hands away. "Yeah, yeah. Hey, will you come with me to keep a lookout during, uh, oh, fifth period? Paul's been spreading rumors about me to his friends."

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "What sort of rumors?"

"That Antonio is a psychopath who gets his kicks from picking on nerds," Gilbert fabricated, collecting his books and shutting his locker.

Antonio frowned at Gilbert. "Ah, you heard it, too?"

Gilbert rolled his eyes and walked away from the pair.

 **…**

Gilbert scribbled on a spare sticky note from his textbook, sending looks at Alfred next to him. Gilbert had carefully planned this seating arrangement. It had taken some work; he had employed Antonio to scare off the other students, but had instructed him to leave the desk next to Gilbert empty, and then leave before Alfred entered the room.

Gilbert's careful orchestration led to the annoying football player sitting next to him.

Gilbert waited until the teacher's back was turned before nudging Alfred, trying to hand him the note. Alfred ignored him, continuing to take notes. Gilbert kicked Alfred's leg.

"What the f—"

"Alfred, is there something you'd like to share with the class?" The teacher called from the front of the room.

Alfred shot a glare at Gilbert before clearing his throat. "No, sir. Sorry." Gilbert hadn't realized this before, but Alfred had a slight Southern accent to his voice.

Gilbert waited until the teacher was turned around before trying to hand Alfred the piece of paper once again. Alfred finally conceded and snatched the piece of paper out of Gilbert's hand, scowling. Gilbert grinned. All according to plan.

 **…**

Gilbert was lying on the bleachers, looking at the grey sky. He wondered if his brother was having fun in the library. Fuck his parents for deciding the two brothers could share a car.

"Why am I here?"

Gilbert's head jerked up. He looked up at the blond standing over him, squinting. Gilbert sighed, stretching out on the hard bleacher. "Well, my ride's busy, so I figured I might as well try to help your sorry ass out for the next few weeks," Gilbert said, sitting up.

Alfred's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

Gilbert stood, facing Alfred. The other boy took a step back, looking uneasy. "You really want to be running back?" Alfred nodded, looking far more serious than he probably needed to. "Well, then I'm going to help you be the best fucking running back this school's ever seen—after me."

Alfred took off his glasses and cleaned them on his t-shirt. He still looked too serious in Gilbert's opinion. "Why?"

Gilbert face pulled into a sneer. "What, do you not want help?"

Alfred's face darkened and he replaced his glasses. "Calm down, dude, I didn't say that. I just didn't think _you_ of all people—"

"Look, Jones," Gilbert snapped, "You don't know anything about me, okay? I have my own reasons for fucking doing this, so shut up and accept the help."

"I don't need help from _anyone_ ," Alfred barked, taking a step closer to Gilbert. "Hell, the last thing I need is help from some crazy guy who has some weird complex about being better than everyone else."

" _I_ have a complex? Haha, you make me laugh, Jones," Gilbert wiped away a mock tear. "Says the boy who does so many community service hours the school thinks he's lying about it. Who're trying to save, Jonesy?" Gilbert scowled.

"Why're you even offerin' to help me?" Alfred took another step forward. The man was definitely more bulky than Gilbert—that was for freaking sure. "What makes it so—what makes you a better running back than me, huh?"

Gilbert shoved Alfred back. "Well, for one thing, I'm not a lardass! You're built like a linebacker and that's not good for running."

Alfred looked scandalized. "I'm _not_ a lardass!"

Gilbert's lips pulled into a smirk. "Prove it! Run up and down this field without passing out and I'll be _shocked_."

Alfred threw down his backpack. "Fine!" He took off, still in his jeans, running up and down the field. Gilbert was not impressed.

"Get those knees higher, Jones!" Gilbert called as the heavier man ran past.

"Fuck off!" Alfred yelled over his shoulder, attempting to do as Gilbert said.

"Keep your eyes on the end of the field!" Gilbert screeched when he caught sight of Alfred look at his feet. "And get those knees up!"

Alfred fell on his face.

 **…**

"Aw, come on, you just set those up so I would fall on my face," Alfred whined, glancing down sorrowfully at the tires.

Gilbert kicked one the obstacles, hands on his hips. He smirked at Alfred, parading around his awesome obstacle course. Tires, sand bags, and various other hindrances of the feet littered the half the field until the end zone. Gilbert had set it up in the time it had taken for Alfred to get changed

"As much as I love seeing you fall flat on your fucking face," Gilbert chirped, earning a wicked glare from Alfred, "We need to work on those feet of yours. You still have linebacker feet. You have to be quick." Gilbert paced around Alfred in circled, dodging the man's slaps. "Besides, you should be grateful I'm not making you run more laps."

Alfred sulked. "I miss regular practice. Why can't we train then?"

"Because. Regular practice was for linebackers. Go!" Gilbert pushed Alfred, watching him stumble through the obstacle course.

 **…**

During the next game, whenever Alfred was benched, he took notes on Gilbert.

 **…**

Gilbert looked down at his stopwatch, impressed. "Not bad, Jonesy. I dare say you've gotten the hang of not being a total moron. You even got your knees up."

Alfred grinned, looking down the field and nodding. Gilbert raised an eyebrow, amused. The kid was certainly eager to please. His face lit up whenever Gilbert complimented him. Gilbert could put him through the ringer, but if he slipped up and even complimented him just once, Alfred would perk right back up.

"Luckily, I prepared for this event," Gilbert grinned. He pulled out his phone and sent a few text messages, smirk glued to his face. Alfred tried to snatch Gilbert's phone away, but the improvised coach sent a kick at his knee. "Fuck off! Run the obstacle three more times and we're done."

Alfred gasped. "What? No three hundred pushups? No running until my knees give out? No running up and down the field, trying to catch your ridiculous throws?" The smile spread across his face. "You're going soft!"

Gilbert put his hand on Alfred's face and pushed him back. "Oh, yeah, yeah. Do your damn exercise."

Gilbert collected his backpack and headed toward the car, yawning. Ludwig was catching rides home with the guy he was tutoring, so Gilbert had control of the car. He threw his backpack in through the broken window, leaning in and finding a cigarette. He lit it, leaning against the car and taking a deep breath.

Who knew how long he stood there, breathing in smoke.

"They're not gonna' let you play in college in you smoke."

Gilbert nearly cried out, jerking up and glaring at Alfred. "That would be an issue if I was going to college." He lit a new cigarette, leaning against his car once again.

Alfred stood a few feet in front of him, frowning. "Why aren't you?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Not my speed. I'm too awesome for…" he mock shuddered, " _University_." He laughed as he brought his hand up for another puff.

"What're you gonna' do?"

Gilbert looked up at the sky. "Dunno. You?"

"Ah… Well, my dad he, uh, he knows some _people_ … Some, uh, scouting people."

Gilbert's head snapped up. "You're fucking kidding me."

Alfred shrugged, smiling like an idiot. "So, I'm hoping for the best."

"You're a fucking miracle, Jonesy," Gilbert breathed, not sure whether to be pissed that Alfred had a leg up while his other friends didn't. "Hopefully, they'll appreciate my hard work."

Alfred rocked back on his heels. "Why're you doing this?"

Gilbert flicked away his cigarette and opened his car door. He slid in, starting his car after a few stalls. "Because."

 **…**

"The goal today, Jonesy, is to dodge these fuckers."

Alfred's jaw dropped. "You're kidding."

Gilbert smirked, hands on hips. "It's not all obstacle courses on the field! You're going to have to dodge people whose job it is to knock your fat ass down."

Ivan Braginski and Antonio were both smiling innocently, acting like they weren't about to try and tackle Alfred to the ground. Gilbert had called them away from regular practice and they had happily complied.

"Not so fat anymore," Ivan disagreed lightly. "You're much less fatter now. I cannot wait to squish you like bug." Ivan smiled.

Antonio cracked his knuckles. "It's true. I've got quite a score to settle with you, friend. You knocked me down more than anyone," Antonio looked at Gilbert, smiling apologetically. "I can hit him hard, yeah?"

Gilbert shrugged, tossing Alfred the ball. "Run."

 **…**

"What the _fuck_ was that?" Alfred yelled, pushing Gilbert into the empty locker room. "You get your big ass _thug_ buddies to beat me up?! I thought we were friends!" Alfred glared.

"Fuck off!" Gilbert hissed, throwing off Alfred's hands. "That was to help you! Not my fault you couldn't run fast enough." Gilbert grabbed Alfred's shoulders, shaking him. "We're getting down to crunch time here, Jonesy. You have a _scout_ coming! You have to be on—"

Alfred pushed off Gilbert's hands, but remained close. "Oh, like you care!"

"Like I don't?! I gave up my spot on the team for you, Alfred, and you go and accuse me of—"

Alfred stepped closer, eyes ablaze. "Yeah, well then why _did_ you help me, huh? Why did you give up your spot on the team?" Gilbert opened and closed his mouth, unsure. "Then don't tell me I should respect you for a decision I don't even know why you made!"

"Fine, fuck, because I fumble the ball, alright?"

Alfred wasn't sure whether he should still be angry. His face contorted. "What?!" He said loudly.

"I fumble the ball," Gilbert repeated, frowning. "I can't help it. So, I figured, if anyone should be in my grade's last few football games, it should be someone who wouldn't fumble. And Jonesy," Gilbert chuckled, "You never fumble that fucking ball."

"Oh."

The locker room suddenly seemed so quiet. They seemed too close. And then Alfred kissed him. Gilbert shot backwards, staring.

Alfred looked shocked. "Sorry, I…"

Gilbert licked his lips.

 **…**

Alfred was accepted to the University of Southern California. Gilbert moved with him; that fatass still needed his coach, after all.


	2. Hotdogs and Ice Cream

Francis liked to work with food. It was an art, something that required faith and knowledge and the right blend of ingredients. When he had quit his job at the talent agency, he had poured himself into cooking, searching the papers for job listings as the oven heated up. After a month, Francis had bought a table and a hotplate.

The menu changed daily and Francis only made a little over breakeven, but the customers were friendly and the food was delicious. Sometimes he sold crepes, sometimes fried foods, and other times sautéed.

The man standing in front of him had white hair. The man standing in front of him was sneering, arms crossed. He observed Francis' station with a look of superiority, smirk looking quite at home on his face. Francis raised an eyebrow. This man sold ice cream.  
"So," the man began.

Francis slipped on his own smile, leaning forward. "Welcome to my little stand! I see that you run the ice cream stand there just down the way. I should have come to introduce myself—" He stood, holding out his hand, "Francis Bonnefoy."

The man's smirk looked like it had been stapled to his face. His eyes flicked to Francis' hand, then the table. He laughed, a quick, awkward sound, ignored the extended hand.

"Gilbert. I'm just here to warn you that it's tough on this street. Lots of competition for the customers. I hope you're ready for some good old fashioned capitalism." Gilbert uncrossed and crossed his arms. "I'm here to let you know that I won't go easy on you."

Francis had adjusted the pitcher of roses instead of shaking Gilbert's hand. "I wouldn't dream of it! You don't seem like the type to…" Francis let his eyes wander, "Go easy."

Gilbert let out another laugh and then ran away.

Not an hour later—after the lunch rush—there was another man standing in front of Francis' table. This one had on an apron and a grin. Blond hair, bright blue eyes, sheepish looks when Francis caught him staring. When Francis offered his hand, Alfred squeezed it harder than he had to.

"Yeah, I run a hotdog stand," Alfred jerked his head back behind him. "I smell your food and it drives me fucking insane." _His_ laugh was loud and obnoxious. "It's usually just me and Gil, so it's, like, cool to see someone new, you know?"

Surprisingly, it seems as though Alfred and Gilbert talked. Well, maybe _talked_ wouldn't be the right word for it. Alfred would wander down to talk to Francis, mentioning how many customers mentioned to _him_ that nothing could beat the original appeal of hotdogs. Gilbert, from his position across the street, would run across traffic, talking loudly about how customers appreciated a cold ice cream on such a hot day.

They argued. They scared away pedestrians.

Gilbert scoffed. "You can't have hotdogs for every meal."

"What? Yes you can. Dude, you can only have ice cream for dessert or lunch. Hotdogs are nutritious. Carbs and protein," Alfred slapped his stomach, "Just want my Mum would have wanted."

A woman slowed, but she eyed Gilbert's bleached hair and moved on. Francis watched mournfully.

"Please, ice cream is the only food that people eat because it makes them feel good. And there's this type that, if you suck on it, sticks to your t—"

"That's just Dip'n'Dots." Alfred rolled his eyes, stealing one of Francis' crepes and munching on it. "It's not that cool. Like, I could get way more full with hotdogs. Hey, who was that chick you were talking to?"

A rainy day chased away any pedestrians. Francis lounged around his home, texting anyone who wasn't busy working. He had everything prepared for tomorrow's cooking at the stand, but it wasn't even three. If he really wanted, he _could_ go visit Arthur, but that—

Who was knocking?

Francis looked at his door, at his satin bath robe. He opened the door, leaning against the frame and raising an eyebrow at Gilbert.

"Not that I dislike spontaneous visits, but how do you know where I live?"

Gilbert shrugged. He almost looked _sullen_. Great Gilbert of the Ice Cream Stand was unconquerable. Here he was, holding a six pack of shitty beer, practically moping on Francis' doorstep. That was Alfred's thing—moping when his profits didn't allow for the newest game console, when his boss came around to berate him for talking instead of serving. Gilbert was too proud.

"Alfred has a date," Gilbert explained, "Couldn't hang out."

Francis yielded, allowing Gilbert to trudge into his apartment.

"He got a date? I would not have expected it. He's cute, sure, but as for dating material… Was it the boy that's been—"

"No, Alfred is an asshole," Gilbert corrected, collapsing on Francis' couch and opening a beer. He took a long sip. "He walks up and down our street like he owns the place, and then he is just so stupid and he buys ice cream even though he talks _shit_ about it. Asshole."

Francis paused on his way to the kitchen. Passion is what fueled Francis. And those words… Francis looked over his shoulder at Gilbert. It sounded as though Gilbert's passions were not being returned by a certain—

No. He couldn't get ahead of himself.

Francis filled a wineglass and returned to his living room. Casually, almost too casually, Francis took a seat and watched Gilbert chug his beer. Perhaps …

Francis really tried, he really did. He told himself that it wasn't his place to intrude in the matters of love, that it was up to the participants to realize that they were star crossed lovers. But when Alfred would mention a football game, Francis would suggest they all go to a bar. And then he would leave the two of them. Francis moved his table across the street, so Alfred had to walk past Gilbert to see him.

Francis poked and prodded. But, well…

Later, after the wedding, Francis explained that Alfred would still be around for chats. Gilbert didn't answer, and Francis didn't stop him knocking back drink after drink after drink.


	3. It's Three in the Morning Here

Holy fuck, what time was it? Alfred scrambled for his phone, squinting at the time that popped up. It was three in the morning, and Alfred was in his school's shitty library, studying for—Alfred looked at his notes—studying for Shakespearian English, and he wanted to kill himself.

Alfred, desperate for a break for his brain, pushed back from his table, rubbing his eyes. Gilbert, across from him, had long since fallen asleep, abandoning Alfred to his studies.

"Hey," Alfred muttered, kicking Gilbert underneath the table. "Yo, Gilbo."

Gilbert started, throwing himself upwards. "I'm awake!"

Alfred squinted, taking off his glasses. "You fell asleep at eleven. It's three."

"Dude, you fuckin' missed your test."

Alfred threw his notebook at Gilbert. "In the morning! I just thought you should know. In case… I…" He gazed down at his textbook, "I don't remember why I woke you up."

His study partner collapsed back onto the table. "Well then don't."

Alfred groaned and turned his weary eyes back toward his textbook. This was terrible. This was a terrible, terrible idea. The decisions that had led Alfred to the library played through Alfred's mind; Gilbert telling Alfred about the party, Matthew visiting, Gilbert telling Alfred all-nighter studying sessions were the way to go.

Somewhere from the depths of library, a chair was dragged across the floor.

Alfred blinked and looked around. He hadn't heard any sounds from the living the last few hours. After a few minutes of silence, Alfred returned to his books.

Someone walked by the table. Alfred saw them from the corner of his eye, felt the faint breeze as they passed him.

When he looked up, everything was still.

Alfred felt his chest tighten. He kicked Gilbert once again, sucking in a gulp of air. "Gilbert, holy shit, _Gilbert wake up_!"

The man sat up, looking like he was one second away from launching himself across the table and throttling Alfred.

"Unless you're leaving—"

Alfred shook his head, leaning so far over the table, his nose was almost almost pressed against Gilbert's. "There's a ghost. I saw it. Gilbert, I _saw_ it."

Gilbert looked at Alfred for a moment, looking strangely flustered. He pushed the panicking man away. "Alfred, it was probably your imagination. You've been awake since, like, six. You need to sleep."

Alfred blew air angrily though his lips, cheeks puffing up. "Gilbert, are you not listening, a ghost. You know what happened—"

Gilbert, despite himself, sneered, "I'm pretty sure falling out of a tree doesn't count as a supernatural experience."

Before Alfred could respond, the sound of something heavy and wooden hitting the ground echoed through the library. It was deathly quiet afterwards. Gilbert and Alfred stared where the noise had come from.

Gilbert turned to Alfred, a small smile on his face. "I th—Holy shit behind you!"

Alfred whipped around, letting out a manly scream. "What—what?!"

Gilbert stood, gathering Alfred's various notes and textbooks. "Nothing, nothing it's just that…" He suddenly looked up at Alfred. "It had no _face_."

Alfred launched himself over the table. "Jesus H. Christ and it was behind me?!" He fell onto Gilbert's side of the table, straightening and gathering his notes. "We have to get out of here!"

The two of them moved quickly through the hallway, checking behind corners and bookshelves for the ghost.

"There it is again!" Gilbert screeched, pointing behind Alfred with his free hand.

Alfred nearly threw his books everywhere. He took off running, Gilbert following behind him and yelling something, but Alfred sure as hell wasn't paying attention. He reached the library's front doors, pulling on them desperately.

Gilbert finally caught up.

"Why won't they open?!" Alfred yelled.

Gilbert looked around before scooting in close to Alfred. "Al, this is the last chance we may ever have…"

Alfred nodded. "We should kiss."

Before Gilbert could respond, Alfred grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled Gilbert in, smashing their lips together in a truly awful kiss. After a few seconds of silence Gilbert pushed Alfred away.

"You know the doors open out, not in, right?"

Alfred stared.

Gilbert laughed nervously. "Also, I might have lied about seeing something behind you."


End file.
